


Stained Crimson

by orphan_account



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Mob, Blood and Torture, Human & Country Names Used, Italian Mafia, Mafia Romano (Hetalia), Multi, POV Second Person, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:52:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A smile will get you pretty far. A smile and a gun will get you farther. -Al Capone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tiles Are Red

You hated them, you hated them all. Damn the mafia, damn it all. You’ve never wanted anything to do with them, but it’s your country’s legacy, and you can’t do much about it. You only wanted to run your country, without having to deal with the responsibilities that came with it.  
Doesn’t that describe your entire life. You’ve never wanted to do what you’re told, always given authority a defiant rebuttal, never accepting to do what you’re told. Antonio certainly figured that out from the start. He was never able to control you, no matter how hard he tried. You’ve been told that he tried to trade you when you were young, but you don’t bother looking into it. You know it’s probably true, and maybe a part of you doesn’t want to believe it is. Maybe that’s why you haven’t looked into it, you’ve glossed over it, like many other things.  
The disposable cell phone you use rings, and you almost ignore it completely before picking it up, too tired to deal with the consequences of ignoring the mafia. It plagues your country like a disease. Your fingers wedge themselves under the lid of the cell phone, flipping it open, and you answer the phone.  
“Questo meglio essere troppo importante per noi.” You say, your voice laced with venom. Even you’re not entirely sure if this is an act you put on everyday or if you’re actually this angry all the time. They’ve probably blended together, because the only time you ever actually feel anything real is when you’re alone, and that isn’t very often.  
“E ' importante capo.Tuo fratello è qui.” The gruff voice says over the phone. You nearly drop the silver chunk of metal, and you manage to grab it with your other hand with as much grace as a newborn giraffe.  
What is Feliciano doing at that building? A feeling of dread pools in your stomach and you force yourself to answer the phone.  
“Cosa vuole?” Your voice is surprisingly stable, unlike your hand. It’s shaking like you have Parkinson's disease. The phone has to be stabilized with your other hand, so that it doesn’t fall to the floor and break.  
“Sta chiedendo per voi.” The voice says, almost sounding surprised that you didn’t know. You shake your head in irritation at your little brother.  
“Sarò lì presto. Portatelo dentro.” You say, and the voice gives a noise of consent before you hang up the phone and throw it in the garbage. You grab your coat and head out the door, looking for your car. You take your keys out of your pocket and hit the unlock button, following the sound to your car.  
You find it parked where you left it, obviously, and you get inside and start it, driving off to the place that you just left, and incidentally, despise. You curse your brother for going there, but at the same time you silently hope that nothing is wrong.  
Driving there at what feels like 60 miles below the speed limit, but actually is the speed limit, is the worst thing. You swear the speed limit in this part of town is never followed, but at this point you honestly don’t care. There’s no rhyme or reason to getting pulled over when you have twin pistols in the passenger seat.  
“Damn it all.” Pulling into the parking lot, you shove the twin pistols down your waistband and nearly stalk into the building. A guard sees you at the entrance and stops you, and you swear words that would make a sailor blush under your breath.  
“Tu chi sei?” The man demands. You can almost see the pistol in his hand, even though he’s trying to be discreet. You nearly laugh at the ridiculous attempt.  
“Romano Vargas.” You spit, and his face dawns as he realizes who you are. He apologizes several times as you go through the door, and you don’t bother to answer as you search for your brother.  
You look for about two minutes before you realize you can just ask the unlucky idiot who’s closest to your grasp. You grab the unlucky man and try to look as menacing as possible.  
“Ehi bastardo dove cazzo è mio fratello?” You say, and this idiot at least seems to recognize who you are. He takes you quickly to a door and opens it, and you find your brother sitting in the middle of a room with three guys with shotguns in his hands. He sees you and starts to stand, before being pushed down by one of said three guys.  
“Fratello!” He says, and you glare at the people surrounding him. They back off slightly, but then one of them steps forward and you brace yourself for his rebuttal. He opens his mouth and the bullshit starts flowing forward.  
You don’t even listen to what he says. You just stare at him until he shrinks back like a kicked puppy and you just look around the circle at the idiots holding the shotguns. They shrink a bit as well, but don’t lower their guns. They point them at Feliciano, your brother.  
His eyes widen and they stare at you, satisfaction on their faces. Feliciano looks at you with a worried expression, and your reaction is almost immediate. Reflexes take over as your hands go into your waistband and pull out two pistols, and in about ten seconds the three idiots were dead, their shotguns on the floor. Blood covers the tiles, and your eyes avoid it as your brother stands up and hugs you, babbling.  
“Yeah, yeah, shut up.” You say, but you are secretly a bit relieved your brother is alright, though you’ve never really liked him very much. You’re also pissed at the three bodies on the floor, but that will mostly be later. You just blow the smoke off your pistols like some Western gunslinger, and shove the two muzzles into your waistband, not bothering to take them out after they burn your skin. Your scar tissue will take over quickly enough in that area. It always does.  
He keeps babbling like he always does, but you don’t really listen. You never do, unless you have absolutely nothing better to do. Usually he goes on about the potato bastard or something equally boring and useless.  
Well, speak of the devil. He’s standing in front of you. His blue eyes lock on you as he sees your brother and you are so tired of the bullshit you don’t even say anything at first.  
“S-South Italy.” He says formally, surprised to see you.  
“Potato Bastard.” You say, not even startled in the least that he is here. Your brother obviously called him, while your people called you. But Feliciano would be dead if you hadn’t gotten here and the Potato Bastard had. The German idiot most likely doesn’t have the ability to get inside like you do. You’re still figuring out why those imbeciles thought they could kill your brother, when you only told them to hold him and keep him there. You’ll deal with your people later you suppose, and there will be hell to pay.  
“Feliciano called me.” He says, because he needs a reason to be in your country.  
“He decided to come into my place of business and get into trouble. Small wonder you’re here, bastard.” You say, adding the last insult only out of habit. You’ve never liked the German, even when he wasn’t involved with your brother. You don’t call it the mafia out of necessity.  
“H-He called me.” He says with a tone of stupidity that shows he hasn’t caught up. His hands almost twitch at his sides, because he had no idea what to do with them. You just shake your head and start to leave to go to your car.  
“We’ll talk about this later, Feliciano.” You say, and you get in your car and begin to drive. You don’t go back to your house, because you know it will be swarmed with either cops or your people, and frankly you don’t need or want to deal with them right now. You just drive away from the building and turn on the radio.  
The sound of an annoying pop song comes on the radio, and your hand nearly turns it off, but instead you just change the station and a song that as you listen, somehow calms you a bit. You realize that your hands are shaking, and you grip the steering wheel tighter to force them to stop, or least stop for the moment.  
Road stretches out in front of you, and you barely even see the lines of cars. You realize you’re stuck in traffic, and swear under your breath. You let your mind wander to what happened today before the honk of the car behind you makes you start.  
You pull forward, before making up your mind where you’re going and turn off at the exit. You drive for about 20 minutes and then pull into the driveway.  
Leaving the car, you walk up to the front door of the house and knock on the door.  
“Antonio?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I realize that Romano is a bit OOC, but I'm not completely sure how to fix it, so if you have any ideas, please let me know!


	2. On the Floor, Bleeding Profusely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try my hand at writing second players, and I have a headcanon that mostly second players run the mafias of their respective country, (except for Romano, of course), and that's where this came from.

There’s no answer at the door, and after the third knock, you push the door open and it swings with a swoosh. You step inside and the door nearly falls off the hinges, hanging on only a bit as it continues swinging with the wind.  
Inside, the house is a mess. Bookshelves are pushed over, there’s broken glass on the floor, pictures have fallen from the walls, and Antonio’s axe is stuck in the wall, with half the blade inside. You reach over to it and try to yank it out of the wall, only to fall backwards, with the axe still stuck in the wall. You stare at it for a moment before continuing around the house.  
Walking throughout the house, you notice the rest of it is as it usually is, with only the main room being torn apart. This worries you just a bit, because even when you were little and did a shitty job of cleaning, the place wasn’t a complete disaster. It was a bit of a mess, but it wasn’t torn apart like this room.  
You pull out your cell phone and dial. Almost immediately it goes to voicemail. You call again and it goes to voicemail again, prompting you to leave one even though you would really like to talk to him in person.  
“Um, Spain, it’s Romano, where the fuck are you? Call me back.” You hang up and drop your phone in your pocket, hearing it jangle with your keys. You leave the house and go back into your car, driving back to your shitty apartment.  
You unlock the place and find spray paint on the wall, leaving you a message. You swear loudly, causing your neighbour to hit the wall, your unspoken agreement with them coming into play. You hit back and then turn to the message that is spray-painted to your wall.  
It was written in English, which gave you no insight to what country the message was from, much to your annoyance. The message was sloppily painted, and there were dripping smears of paint from the wall.  
‘Are you looking for something? Or rather, someone?’ The message asked you mockingly, causing you to slam a knife into the wall, right into the middle of the smiley face that decorated the end of the message.  
You sit down on your armchair and put your face in your hands. Well, it’s official; he’s gone. You have no idea who took him or where the fuck he is; is he even alive? Oh fuck, what if he’s been killed by another country or someone in the Mafia. Honestly, at this point it wouldn’t even surprise you; you’ve seen enough loved ones of others die at your own hands.  
A hand snakes out and snatches your cigarettes that lay on the table. You light up, and take a drag; feeling the nicotine course through your system, and allowing you to relax in the chair. You hope that Antonio is okay, for selfish reasons, as usual. If he’s dead, it’s your fault, and you don’t think you can live with that, along with all the other deaths on your conscience.  
“Ugh…” You say, as a headache sets in. You place your other hand on your temple, massaging it to try to relieve your pain. You continue to smoke, because right now it’s keeping your mind off of the missing country. For now, you just want to relax. Even if you know it’s selfish.  
You turn on the radio, to give you another distraction. It doesn’t work at first, because it’s on a news channel talking about how the mafia has grown in Italy. Your hand strikes the radio and changes the station quickly, turning it to some alternative rock station. It’s much better, because you can finally take your mind off of it for now.  
You yell in pain, while laughter comes beside you. Someone that looks like America, but isn’t America, holds a bat next to you, and hits you again. Blood is splattered on the floor, and you almost can’t see the white tiles anymore.   
“What’s the matter, Spain? Is there a problem?” Not-America says, laughing. He drops the bat for a moment and picks up a knife, cutting along your stomach. You grit your teeth and shake your head no, there is not a problem; even with the blinding pain that comes from your stomach and extends to every part of your body. Your vision turns white.  
You pass out to the sound of laughter coming from not-America.  
Eventually you turn off the radio, crush your cigarette, and pick up your cell phone. First you dial your brother’s number, because you don’t know who else to call. He picks up after the second ring and says hello.  
“Hi, fratello!” He says, and you cringe at the noise that argues with your headache.  
“Hello, Feli. Have you seen Spain recently?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose between two fingers. It does little to alleviate the pain that has started between your eyes.  
“Spain? No, I haven’t seen Spain in a while.” He says, and the phone clicks as you hang up, because you can’t deal with his cheery voice for very long right now. Next you call Britain, even though he annoys you; although, at the moment, everyone annoys you to some extent.  
Britain’s phone rings for a while, but he finally picks up on the final ring. He sounds irritated, and you wonder where the hell he was, because he usually answers his phone on the first ring. You’ve seen Spain call him enough to know.  
“What do you want, Romano.”  
“Have you seen Spain recently?”  
“No. Goodbye.” Click. You throw your cell phone across the room, and it bounces off the wall before hitting the floor, causing the screen to crack.   
You stand from the chair, walk over to the cracked phone, and stare at it for a moment. You almost throw it again, but it rings with an incoming call, startling you. You stare at it a minute longer and then answer the phone.  
“Romano.”  
“Hey, dude!” A voice that has a cheer not unlike your brother’s comes through the speaker and you hold the phone away from your ear as America begins to ramble on about something. You can’t tell what he’s talking about, because the words are being spoken too fast.  
“Slow down, you asshole. What are you talking about?” You say, your tone demanding.  
“Aren’t you friends with him?” The nation bursts out, and it takes you a minute to even process what the fuck he just said.  
“Who?”  
“Spain!” He says, and you tense up, as if ready to receive a blow.   
“What do you know about Spain?”   
“Britain says you’re looking for him!”   
“What’s it to you?”  
“Well I can help you! I am the hero, after all!”  
Click. You hang up the phone, because you’re not dealing with the boisterous idiot’s hero complex today. You don’t have time for it.  
The phone rings again, and lo and behold, it’s the ‘hero’ himself. You answer the phone, and prepare to yell at him for a good solid five minutes. You don’t even get a word in before he interrupts you.  
“Hello, Romano. How’s the search going?” The person on the other side of the phone asked. You stop in your tracks at the New York accent. This isn’t America; who the hell has his phone and knows about the ‘search’?  
“...Who the hell are you?!” You demand, and the person on the other end laughs.  
“Well, most people call me Allen, though you can call me whenever you like.” He said, and you could actually hear the smirk through the speaker of the phone.   
“Listen here, you bastard, I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but-”  
“Oh, games?” He interrupted. “Games are fun. Would you like to play one?”  
“Where is he?!” You yelled into the phone, becoming frustrated with the asshole who was trying to screw with your head.  
“On the floor, bleeding profusely.”  
“What did you do to him?!”  
“Nothing he didn’t need done to him. You know, he seems to believe that you’re looking for him. Can he tell the future?”   
“How do I know he’s even alive?” You shout.  
“You want proof? Fine.” He says, and there’s a moment of silence until you’re greeted with Spain’s voice.  
“R-Roma?”  
“Spain? Are you okay? What has he done?” Another moment of silence, and the phone is back in Allen’s control.  
“I think that’s proof of life. Enough, at least.”  
“You let him go right now!”  
“Make me.” Click. Allen hung up and you nearly crushed the cell phone you held in your hand. It didn’t break, but the crack grew a bit larger.  
You swore loudly, and your neighbour hit the wall again, but you just told your neighbour to shut the fuck up and to leave you alone. They hit the wall one more time and then they leave you alone per your demand. You stand there for a moment in silence before sitting on your knees on the floor. You feel the burning sensation in your throat before the wetness on your cheeks.  
“Damn, damn, damn.” You repeat the word again and again, until it doesn’t even sound like a word to you anymore. You aren’t sure how long you sit there, it could’ve been five minutes or it could have been three hours. Neither are you sure what forces you to stand up and try to figure out a logical next step.  
Eventually you figure the next thing to do would be to call America and ask him about this “Allen” freak who called you. After all, it came from an American number and the freak had a New York accent, something you know is with the mob in that country, because that’s where the mob is mostly stationed.   
This whole situation just got a bit more complicated than you originally thought.


End file.
